


a word that's quiet, not half the way there

by givemebaretrees



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, geralt does not talk about his feelings, jaskier has much to say about his own. and geralt's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-19 09:07:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22708444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givemebaretrees/pseuds/givemebaretrees
Summary: They had met again on the road. It was always on the road. Geralt was always on the road, looking for beasties that went bump in the night, and Jaskier was always on the road, looking for…Well, Geralt, maybe.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 115





	a word that's quiet, not half the way there

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Oh, La by Ra Ra Riot.

Jaskier plucked out something formless on the lute as they walked. It might become a song by the next town—or part of it might, anyway, if Jaskier happened across a particularly catchy set of notes as he looked at the right tree branch and put the right thought to the tune.

He looked up at Geralt on the horse. Geralt was eyeing some tree branch as though he half-expected it to open a pair of eyes and swing a sword at him.

Some things don’t change. Geralt looked down at him.

“You think I could maybe ride behind you?” asked Jaskier, knowing that it would do no good. “We could get to the next town faster…?”

Geralt stopped the horse. Jaskier almost tripped.

“Yeah,” said Geralt, and Jaskier scrambled up, never one to look a gift from Geralt in the… oh, well, whatever.

But he didn’t let his hopes ride on it. Cautious, he put his hands on Geralt’s shoulders, judging it to be the safest place and since Geralt didn’t complain he had to assume that he was correct. In the end, they didn’t exactly get to the next town faster, but Jaskier’s aching feet were desperately grateful for the relief, because he sure as hell wasn’t twenty any more, and it meant that he didn’t mind standing up for longer to present his song in the tavern.

Which was fortunate, as they had exactly zero funds, and, since Geralt would have been pretty content to roll up some hay around himself in a stable until he was kicked out, it fell to Jaskier to find them a place to sleep where they would not need to worry about horseshit in their hair. The first two inns had already worked out arrangements with itinerant travelers such as themselves, but the third, and, frankly, the most shabby of all of them, had a serving girl who’d quit just days before, and they were struggling.

“My friend and I would be happy to dishes for you, madame, if you would but grace us with a room and board?”

“He that Witcher?” asked the madame in question.

“Fabled in song?” asked Jaskier, pleased.

“The one what killed the griffin up near Blackbough.”

Close enough.

“The very same!” said Jaskier, proudly, as if he’d been there himself. He hadn’t, but he’d added the verse to his song nonetheless.

“We got something weird on the edge of town,” said the madame. “I think they’re offering a reward for it.”

Jaskier, delighted at the prospect of not having to do dishes, nodded eagerly.

“I’m Branwen, and if you take care of it— _and_ do my dishes—I’ll let you sleep here as long as you like, no need to pay me. But the room I’ve got has only one bed.”

Damn. But it was a deal, nonetheless.

“Done, but you drive a hard bargain, Madame Branwen.”

And they shook on it, and Geralt rolled his eyes.

* * *

They had met again on the road. It was always on the road. Geralt was always on the road, looking for beasties that went bump in the night, and Jaskier was always on the road, looking for…

Well, Geralt, maybe.

It wasn’t that he had spent his whole _life_ pining. It wasn’t like he’d met a man on his doorstep as he’d made his way into the big wide world and that had been _it_ for Jaskier’s heart. No, he’d only met a man on his doorstep as he’d made his way into the big wide world and spent ten years singing about him, and casting him as a dashing romantic hero, until the man was nearly unrecognizable.

Or so Jaskier thought. People tended to recognize Geralt in them anyway.

But along the way he’d had a few good years with one patron or another, and he’d stay in a place long enough to rack up a reputation. He had loved a few women, and a few more men. Not _all_ of his songs were for Geralt. But a good many of them were, and a good many of the breakups he’d had were a result of Geralt, too, whether or not the other party knew it.

There was something to love in everyone. Jaskier believed that to be so. There was also just _more_ to love in Geralt.

Anyway, Jaskier had found Geralt again. They didn’t spend time catching up on each other’s exploits, usually. In fact this time there had been very little catching up done, as Geralt had been on the verge of exhaustion. It was early morning, which meant that fewer beasties and ghoulies would be trying to eat either of them. Jaskier assumed that Geralt had been wandering through the night like a madman.

Well, if Geralt had his own medicine, Jaskier could tie on a bandage, which was fortunate, because Geralt had been practically catatonic. Jaskier had stripped Geralt of his shirt, all very clinical and professional, thank you very much.

“Point to what I should use,” said Jaskier, opening up Geralt’s bag. Geralt pointed at something small in a silvery, bulbous vial. He pulled the cork off, and sniffed it, although Geralt usually yelled at him for doing that. It smelled like ribleaf.

Geralt pointed to a rag, too, and Jaskier put the cork back on, shook the vial, and dumped some of the potion onto the rag.

“Didn’t think it was really you,” said Geralt, after a moment.

Geralt stuck out his arm, which had a nasty-looking gash running from wrist to elbow.

“Well, who else would it be? Are there any other handsome bards who would see you on the side of the road and dash to your aid?”

“No,” said Geralt, “but the poultice I gave you to use on my arm is supposed to help with the hallucinatory effects of certain kinds of venom.”

“Oh.”

Jaskier had gone past the initial wrapping of the worst wound, and was now working on cleaning up the more minor scrapes and scratches. He was finding that, mostly, there was a great deal of dried blood on Geralt, and not a lot of open wounds besides the first, which, he supposed, was good. But there was a messy cut over Geralt’s eye, too, and Jaskier dabbed at it gently.

Geralt was watching him from under the cut. And of course he was, there was nowhere else for him to look, but that didn’t make it easy.

“So, do you still think you’re hallucinating me?” said Jaskier, and it came out rougher and quieter than he meant for it to. Geralt blinked first, and Jaskier blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “My father had hunting dogs. All smelly and standoffish and proud.”

“Hm. This is _not_ convincing me that the venom has been neutralized.”

“I loved them,” said Jaskier, “they had terribly soft ears, and perfect tails for pulling, all white at the end like they had been dipped in paint. And they did not, under any circumstances, wish to be embraced.”

“Another man might take offense.”

Believing himself to be in perfect safety, Jaskier continued.

“I got nipped more than a few times,” said Jaskier. “Never seriously. Always a warning, what they could do if they were let loose. If they were injured, my father always told me to leave them alone. Said you can’t touch an injured dog, it’ll bite your hand off, no matter how much it loves you any other day of the week.”

“But you never learned your lesson, did you?”

Jaskier tilted Geralt’s chin up, and turned his face so that he could more easily see if he’d gotten all of Geralt’s wounds patched up. Geralt let himself be turned, and Jaskier tried not to shiver.

“Yes,” said Jaskier. “Yes, that’s it, I’m afraid. And now I go after injured wolves.”

Geralt closed a hand around Jaskier’s wrist, just the barest pressure holding his hand where it was.

“I don’t bite.”

“That’s a shame,” said Jaskier, lightly, and Geralt let go of his wrist like Jaskier had burned him. Something shot its way through Jaskier’s heart, swifter than any arrow and sharper than steel. It would have to be examined later, although Jaskier knew exactly what it was. When he spoke again, he spoke lightly. “All set.”

“You won’t even pick up my herbs and decoctions,” said Geralt, as if nothing had happened.

“ _I_ did the work. _You_ can do the cleaning,” said Jaskier, and he picked up his lute, and wandered over to give Roach some friendly nose pats.

They had been together since then. Longer than usual this time around, too. Really, Jaskier was getting too old for these casual sort of hookups and dalliances all over the countryside. Or so he thought.

Of course, he hadn’t been able to tell Geralt to go on without him, so there was that, too.

* * *

Jaskier found the alghoul in the forest. Presumably this was the “something in the woods” mentioned by the innkeeper, or so Jaskier desperately hoped, because surely there couldn’t be more horrible things out here, so he hightailed it out of there. His heart pounded like he was twenty again, and seeing Geralt for the first time in a dim tavern, only now he was vaulting over tree branches and mud puddles and anything that would have knocked him over.

“Geralt! _Geralt!_ ”

Geralt had been danger back then, all doom and gloom and a frown like a crack in a cobblestone. Some things don’t change. Geralt still had that frown. Jaskier didn’t have to make it far—he just had to put Geralt between himself and the alghoul, and he collapsed on the ground, trying not to think about the crunching sound his lute had made.

“Why is it always me who finds them?” he asked, before he could be sure that he could breathe. He regretted it instantly, because at the moment, he couldn’t figure out whether he could get enough air, or if he was going to vomit, or if his heart was going to burst out of his chest, or if his legs were going to fall off.

Geralt was busy doing some impressive stabbing maneuvers.

When Jaskier stopped feeling like he was going to need to claw out his own throat to get enough air, he sat up.

Geralt was wiping his blade off on the ground. Jaskier took a look at the thing that had once been an alghoul, and was now a sort of pulpy mess, and tried not to vomit again, but in a “that’s gross” way, and not a “I haven’t run this hard or fast in ten years” way, this time.

Variety! That was what being around Geralt got a man.

“You’re always the one who finds them because you wander around plucking at your lute. They’re interested. They go looking.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault.”

“Yes.”

Geralt dragged his arm across his face, likely in an effort to smear some of the blood elsewhere, but Jaskier couldn’t say if it worked or not.

“Well, if I didn’t practice,” Jaskier said, “then who would—my _lute!_ ”

Too late, the crunching sound it had made when he hit the ground returned to mind. He pulled it off his back, and examined it closely in the moonlight. The strings were out of tune—not a surprise—but the lute itself seemed to be unharmed, or at least, not so harmed that the problem could be seen in moonlight.

Which probably meant it could be fixed, if there was anything wrong.

“How’s it look?”

“Fine,” said Jaskier, too glad at first to notice that Geralt had, in fact, asked about something, of his own volition. Then he _did_ notice, and tried to ignore his traitorous heart speeding up in his chest.

“Good,” said Geralt, like it mattered—like he _cared_. Whatever small parts of Jaskier’s horrible traitorous heart were left after years and years of Geralt’s abandonment _ached_. “I’m glad.”

And then, Geralt kissed him.

Jaskier was kissing him back before he even knew what was happening. It would have been hard not to, in truth. Geralt kissed the way that he did everything else—you could _feel_ the frown in it, and practically hear him rooting his feet to the ground, stubborn as all hell. Jaskier, too, felt like he’d been anchored.

It should have been stifling. It wasn’t, and Geralt, with his crushing grip, surrounded Jaskier. He moaned, and that seemed to spur Geralt on. _Good man_ , thought Jaskier, though he was too busy trying to fuck Geralt’s mouth with his own to say it aloud.

“Fuck,” said Jaskier, when Geralt seemed to step back to breathe, but Geralt seemed to take his word for a command. Jaskier felt himself pushed up against the nearest tree, while he dug underneath Geralt’s doublet with his fingertips and nails, in Geralt’s back. Geralt hitched Jaskier’s legs up around his own waist and Jaskier, never one to waste an opportunity, rolled his hips against Geralt.

“If anything had happened to you—” Geralt said, and Jaskier moaned again.

“What? You _cared?_ ”

He wanted to hear Geralt say it, wanted that more than anything, wanted it enough to let the words pour out of him. Half disbelief, waiting to be proven wrong, and half begging to hear confirmation. Pride was all very well and good, but when it came to Geralt between his legs and whispering in his ear about his _feelings_ , Jaskier supposed that his pride could go fuck itself for a little while, so Jaskier could get some too.

“Of course I fucking cared,” said Geralt, “you— _you’re_ —my only—”

Whatever Jaskier was, whatever _only_ belonged to Geralt, was lost in Geralt spilling. And Jaskier, who could not keep quiet at even the best of times, cried out when he realized what the warmth was at his sides. Geralt took pity on him, and stuck a hand down his trousers, until Jaskier was fucking into his hand, and then the two of them were a mess.

Good thing they’d spent the whole evening rolling around in mud, anyway. And Geralt had some extra kerchiefs.

* * *

Whatever had happened in the woods, it wasn’t worth talking about on their way back to the tavern, and when they got into the tavern, Jaskier almost half-believed it hadn’t even happened at all. When they got in, the crowds saw his lute, and begged for a song, and that was that. Whatever spell had been between them was broken, written over by the swell of a crowd with the promise of a song in their hearts.

So he played in the tavern, upbeat and charming, once he’d taken stock of his lute and found that it really was fine. Then someone taught him a local ballad, and he made harmonies up for it on the spot. The taverngoers cried, and didn’t kick him out, which he supposed meant that it was the good kind of crying and he’d done well.

Then a round of Geralt’s song, just for fun. By the end of it, they were pouring him ale, and Jaskier imagined that there was something of a flush on his cheeks.

By the end of the evening, Geralt was dozing off in the corner, and trying to pretend he wasn’t, and Jaskier had to lift him up.

(Which looked more like Jaskier tugging at Geralt’s arm, around which he likely could not have fit both hands, and receiving about as much give as any man would have gotten from a statue.)

“C’mon,” Jaskier said, “your evening’s not done yet.”

Geralt looked up, and if Jaskier had thought that what they had done in the woods was forgotten during the course of his time on stage, he knew it was not by the way that Geralt’s eyes traveled him up and down.

“Hm—? Oh, dishes.”

Another impressive eyeroll, and Jaskier dragged him down into the kitchen.

“So, it’s really very good that I studied Velen’s styles of music,” said Jaskier, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn piece of broccoli which had attached itself to the plate like a limpet. “Otherwise I really don’t think that tonight would have gone so well once we got back, and then where would we be? You should really thank me.”

“People linked by destiny will always find each other,” said Geralt, and wasn’t it just like him to not have been listening at all!

Jaskier just about threw up his hands, but remembered that they were full of plates and mugs and things that would probably get chipped if they landed on the floor, and there was still a few sips of ale in one of the mugs stacked by the sink. He didn’t remember whose it had been, but he was considering it.

“What, so, you’re _stuck_ with me?”

Fine! He could roll with the punches! Whatever kind of conversational about-faces Geralt could throw at him, he could handle! Cautiously, so as not to drop any chicken bones or dirty forks on the floor, he brought the mug to his lips and downed the rest of the ale.

“ _No_.” Geralt had that look on his face again, like every word was painful. “We’re not. I don’t think so, anyway. You find me because you look for me—or I find you because… I don’t know.”

“I _like_ you,” said Jaskier.

“Yes,” said Geralt.

“Wait, _you_ find _me_ because—are you saying you _look_ for me?”

Ye gods, Jaskier was never going to live this down. He wished he’d listened to his mother and never become a bard. Or, he could have married that nice marquess, or at least stuck around to be her patron. She didn’t have any problem talking, whatsoever. Never looked constipated when saying so much as a morning _hello,_ after even the most adventurous night.

“ _Yes_ ,” said Geralt. He did not seem to have noticed that he had stopped in the hallway, no matter how exasperated his voice and angry-eyebrows said he was. Jaskier noticed that he had stopped with Geralt, and did not care.

“You know, you’re not an obvious man,” said Jaskier, noting Geralt’s flushed cheeks as well, and the way that he did not want to look at Jaskier. In fact, all of Jaskier’s senses—despite all prior experience to the contrary—were telling him that Geralt’s confessing mood was not over yet. He had bragged about his closeness to the legendary witcher in the past. He had not ever imagined… “You can just tell a man you like him, and be done with it. Don’t I do it to you all the time?”

“You do it to _everyone_ ,” said Geralt.

“There’s something to like in everyone,” said Jaskier, “well, usually, anyway, not always on those greasy thugs who tend to want to run you out of town, but somebody likes them, don’t they, presumably at least some of those bloody children they think you’ll corrupt just by being in the same air must look up to them. Or, presumably, some of the women who bore the aforesaid children. Then again, you really do smell of onion, and horse, so maybe they just don’t want their children to think it’s okay to go for so long without bathing—”

“Never mind,” said Geralt.

“No, wait, I _do_ mind,” said Jaskier. “I do very much mind, thank you. Say it again.”

“People linked by destiny will always find each other—”

“ _Not_ that!”

“—so, when I look for you, I never know if I’m going to find you. I never know if I’ll see you again. I’ll always wonder if the last time I saw you was _it_ for us. I’m not—I don’t think I’m stuck with you, and that frightens me.”

Geralt looked like he was going to keep talking, and it took Jaskier a moment to realize that he wasn’t. Geralt’s eyes—yellow cat eyes—met Jaskier’s. Jaskier suddenly needed to be holding a great deal fewer dirty dishes, and a great deal more Geralt.

“Okay,” said Jaskier, taking a leaf out of Geralt’s book, and not responding directly to the emotional outpouring in front of him. He turned, pushed open the door to the kitchen, and put his dishes in the sink, and when he turned back, Geralt was still standing there, mouth agape and a stormcloud gathering somewhere between his eyebrows.

Perhaps it had been a bad idea, Jaskier thought, to fail to immediately reward the one time that Geralt talked about his feelings. The ones that he pretended that he didn’t have, because for all the life that he could remember, people assumed he didn’t have them, and treated him accordingly.

Fuck.

“Come here,” said Jaskier, too sharply, only it was himself that he was annoyed with, and Geralt, clutching his dishes closer to himself, stomped into the kitchen. Jaskier pointed, and Geralt dropped them in the sink, with a terrible clatter. There was a pause in the clamor of voices in the other room.

“Oh, now look what you’ve done,” said Jaskier, and when Geralt turned to him, Jaskier leaned up and cupped his chin in his hands.

A sweet kiss, with Jaskier thinking of how Geralt had said _I look for you_ , thinking of the catch in Geralt’s voice at _that frightens me,_ with Jaskier putting as much into it as he could before—Geralt sprang away from him, and, taking his cues from the man with better hearing, so did Jaskier, just as the kitchen door opened.

“You two all right in here?” asked Branwen.

“Yes, perfectly fine,” said Jaskier. “Thank you very much. Sometimes we have to remind him that dishes aren’t to be bashed like a necrophage. Isn’t that right, Geralt? Anyway, we just finished checking, we haven’t broken any of your dishes. My sincerest apologies for my companion.”

Branwen laughed, and Jaskier was proud of it. Geralt rolled his eyes.

“You can return to your other guests,” said Geralt, and Branwen nodded, and thankfully shut the door behind herself again.

“Well, that could have gone worse,” said Jaskier, as soon as she was out of earshot. “Really, you could have just _put_ them in the sink.”

Geralt glared at him. Jaskier laughed and kissed him again.

“I broke a plate,” said Geralt.

“Then we’d better do something about it, hadn’t we?”

In the end, what they did was: leave a note promising that ten crowns of the reward money would go to Branwen once it was distributed, and sneak up to their room with its one bed.

Which Jaskier did not let Geralt leave until late morning.

“Aren’t you glad I didn’t let you sleep in a stable? Isn’t it nice to not have horseshit in your hair?” asked Jaskier, as noon approached. It was frankly getting sweaty in this room, and the noonday sun was far too bright, but Jaskier was dealing with it by keeping a pillow over the top of his face.

“Fuck off,” said Geralt (some things really don’t change), but then he plucked up the pillow and kissed Jaskier, so it was all right.


End file.
